


High Praises

by Mazarin221b



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale cooks, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Modern Day, Thwarting, deviousness, tempting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 06:15:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19145218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: It's taken six thousand years, but Aziraphale, Principality, Guardian of the East Gate realizes he just might be in deep trouble one hot summer’s day when he barges into Crowley’s (Demon, Serpent of Eden, general jackass) flat to find him asleep half-naked in the heat, sheets tangled around his long, bare legs.Aziraiphale has an awakening, Crowley is oblivious, and both of them are just as sure of what the other is thinking as they could be. That is, not at all.





	High Praises

**Author's Note:**

> My first Good Omens fic, and I feel stupid for waiting this long to investigate this fandom. Major thanks to my chat friends for cheerleading this fic and to Vulgarweed for giving me some awesome beta almost as soon as I asked for it.

It's taken six thousand years, but Aziraphale, Principality, Guardian of the East Gate realizes he just might be in deep trouble one hot summer’s day when he barges into Crowley’s (Demon, Serpent of Eden, general jackass) flat to find him asleep half-naked in the heat, sheets tangled around his long, bare legs.

“Oh,” he breathes, his exclamation just enough to stir the feathers on Crowley’s wings, opened wide and black and magnificent in his slumber. Aziraphale promptly forgets the fourteenth century treatise on prostitution he’s absolutely _sure_ Crowley swiped from his shop and backs out of the room, which has suddenly become entirely too small and stifling.

He closes the door, and mops his brow.

Had Crowley’s waist always been so slim and inviting? Had the shadows made by his cheekbones always been so sharp, the curve of his lip so sweet?

Six thousand years is a long time to still discover things about one’s self, but that’s what living on Earth gets you:

Self-awareness.

…………………………………………………………….

And all that self-awareness gets him nothing but trouble. He’s enjoying a perfectly nice evening at the Criterion, the summer heat slightly broken by earlier storms, and the lemon drop martinis he’s been ordering like there’s no tomorrow are going down sweet and refreshing. He’s picked up a copy of the Mueller Report and putting in a bit of research, trying to determine if he should finally intervene, when a flash of a familiar face crosses his vision.

Crowley, perched at the bar, leaning forward toward a woman, close enough to share breath. She’s pretty, long dark hair and deep brown skin, her smile perfectly charming. Crowley traces his fingers over her hand, his smile slow and slightly salacious. A temptation, then. Aziraphale feels a stab in the stomach, something unruly and unwise, and all together unfamiliar. Before he can stop himself, he rises from his table in the corner and stalks over to them.

“He’s a demon and trying to tempt you into a rather poor decision,” he says flatly. The woman’s eyes go wide and Crowley’s mouth drops open.

“What the...what on Earth are you doing, angel? That’s cheating!”

The woman blinks “Angel? Demon? Are you two playing some kind of sick game? I’m out of here.” She grabs her bag from the barstool next to her and sweeps off, her long hair swishing behind her.

Aziraphale turns to Crowley, smug. “Well, then. Work done for tonight. I’m off.”  
Crowley growls, grabs him by the wrist and drags him off through the dining room and out the door. Aziraphale shakes off his hand as soon as they reach the pavement and rubs the bones carefully. Crowley had yanked him rather hard actually, and he opens his mouth to protest.

“Oh no you don’t, you just shut it,” Crowley snaps. “What has gotten into you? You can’t just go around telling people who we are, you know that? What happened to ‘letting them make their own choices’ and all that rubbish? You ruined a perfectly good set up. I was going to get laid.”

Aziraphale’s stomach clenches again, that unfamiliar feeling making him a bit dizzy. “I don’t care, Crowley, what you were about to get. It’s my job to thwart you, or have you forgotten?”

Crowley stares at him a moment, silent and still behind his dark glasses. “Yeah, but not like that. What’s going on? Have you gotten a memo from Head Office or something?”

Aziraphale knows if Crowley keeps asking questions there’s no telling what answers might come out, so he starts to shift backward, turning on his heel. “No, nothing, just. I’m just tired, Crowley, that’s all. I forgot myself a moment. Ta, must be off, have to...dust the shop. Bye!”

“You dusted it yesterday,” Crowley calls after him, as Aziraphale sets a fast pace to get around the corner as quickly as he possibly can.

He finally slows down once he’s sure he’s well out of Crowley’s range, and he’s absolutely sure he wasn’t followed. As he continues the walk back toward the shop, he tries to place that strange, gut churning feeling he got, watching Crowley seduce a woman in a bar, trying to tempt her to sin. She hadn’t actually been wearing a ring, but that meant nothing in this day and age. Most sexual escapades weren’t truly sinful anyway, that was just a lot of malarkey set up by the inhabitants Below, to find all the little loopholes and take God’s most perfect gift and give it a tinge of guilt. But Crowley wouldn’t have chosen her if there wasn’t something more to be gained than just a simple shag, and Aziraphale just couldn’t let it happen today.

Why?

He’s known Crowley for six thousand years. Tempting someone into an illicit sexual relationship wasn’t new, nor was it unexpected. It was all part of Crowley’s job. But here was Aziraphale, knowing better than most that love and desire (not lust, no; never something so base as lust) could be two separate things, acting almost jealous over Crowley’s attentions. And jealousy implies possession and that is uncomfortably close to coveting, and coveting is Bad, it says so right in the rules.

But Aziraphale has been inhabiting a mortal form for a very long time, and some things are most definitely rubbing off.

………………………………………………………..

  
Honestly, the biggest problem now is: what on Earth to do about this ridiculous little thing, these feelings he’s developed for likely the most inconstant, inconvenient, irritating...demon. Man. That exists in the world.

He doesn’t do or say anything different, he’s sure of it; 2018 flies by without a single breath of anything being acknowledged. Nothing changes. They’re still as close as they ever were, closer even since thwarting the apocalypse years before. Crowley lounges in the bookshop some days, gently teasing Aziraphale as he works, Aziraphale makes picnics and tapas and decadent desserts, Crowley acting as taste tester for every single thing Aziraphale has a mind to attempt.

“Angel, I think this might be your best yet,” Crowley says, and licks a dollop of madeira scented whipped cream from his spoon. “I mean, you’ve always been good but this is just...sinful.” Aziraphale snorts a laugh and Crowley just grins and takes another bite of the sweet, rosy, wine-poached peaches topped with cream. The fruit brushes against his lip as he takes a bite, leaving a little dab of whipped cream on his philtrum.

“You have a, um. A bit of…” Aziraphale makes motions with his fingers to communicate, and Crowley catches on and tries to lick the cream from his lips. He misses, though, darting his tongue into the corners of his mouth and along his bottom lip. Aziraphale shakes his head and, before he can even stop to really think about it, he reaches out to wipe the smudge off with his thumb. His fingers curl around Crowley’s jaw for a moment and Crowley’s eyes widen.

His skin is warm, warmer than Aziraphale remembered, and Crowley’s slight bit of stubble rasps across his palm. Aziraphale flinches, desperate to not communicate the secrets buried in his heart, and tries to pull away.

Crowley is faster, though, and grasps his wrist before pulling Aziraphale’s thumb into his mouth, his lips wrapping around it, tongue teasing and probing and licking.

“Wouldn’t want to waste any,” he says, smirking, and Aziraphale can’t speak, only sucks in a breath and turns quickly to the obnoxious and elaborate glass coffee urn on the hob.

………………………………………………………………………

From that point forward, Aziraphale is much, much more careful. He keeps himself well-guarded in word and deed, shields his own mind from thoughts of Crowley’s lips, Crowley’s shoulders, Crowley’s hips...oh god, those hips...and, most importantly, any and all ideas that may have come to him in the middle of the night that involve stretching out in the dark, the twilight cascading over the hollow of Crowley’s sternum as Aziraphale tastes the night on his skin.

He doesn’t think Crowley notices anything different. He still invites him over for tea, wine, or dessert on odd nights when he’s inspired to try something new, though now he sits on the end of the sofa instead of close enough to bump shoulders. They spend time quietly working alongside each other in the large crowds of London, Crowley tempting and Aziraphale thwarting, though Aziraphale carefully tries to not notice when Crowley disappears into the back room of a bar or a restaurant with someone young and beautiful, simply rolling his eyes when he comes back flushed and a bit smug.

All in all, it feels rather normal, after a while.

Aziraphale hates it.

……………………………………………………………

Of course, just as it all starts to feel normal, it all blows up, rather spectacularly.

He’s having a bureau delivered, a beautiful thing of polished walnut and gilt, a piece he’s absolutely positive he saw once in the King’s private bedroom in Versailles, something simpler and of rather more good taste for the King’s private use than the opulence shown in the outer rooms for the public. Of course, the antique store he’d bought it from had no idea of its true provenance,and Aziraphale arranged for delivery, giggling under his breath at his find all the while.

Imagine his shock, then, as the two burly furniture movers are heading up the stairs with their precious cargo, Aziraphale is in his tiny flat upstairs and, in preparation, throws open the bedroom door to reveal this:

Crowley, stark naked, sitting on his bed and covered in rose petals. Matter of fact, the entire bed and floor is covered with rose petals, and there are candles burning in tall, iron candelabras around the small room.

“Thought you’d never get here, angel,” Crowley drawls, and salutes Aziraphale with a tall glass of champagne.

Aziraphale makes a sound he can only really describe as a squeak, and slams the door.

“Where ye be wantin’ this thing, then?” one of the movers puffs out, as he maneuvers through the narrow door.

“Just here will do,” Aziraphale says. “Right, um, right there is fine.”

The movers look skeptical. “Right by the fridge? This thing is bloody heavy, begging your pardon. We could put it in your bedroom for ye, no trouble.”

“No!” Aziraphale shouts, then swallows and calms himself. “No, sorry, there is fine. Friends, you see, they’ll help. Later. Things still yet to do!” The movers glance at each other, seem to mentally shrug, and lower the bureau to the floor. Aziraphale pays them, closes the door behind them, and turns to the problem of whatever was going on in his bedroom. He turns the knob slowly and pushes open the door.

Crowley is still there. He smiles again. “Got that bureau, did you? Delightful. Should have had them bring it in.”

Aziraphale feels hysteria building up behind his teeth but he swallows it down. “What, precisely, is going on here?”

“What’s it look like, angel?” he says, and bends one knee up, rose petals scattering from his skin.

“I’d say it looks like a seduction,” Aziraphale croaks, “but it’s happening in my bedroom.”

“ _Now_ you’re catching on.”

Aziraphale remembers being in Crowley’s bedroom last year, the room feeling too small by half and stifling besides, and that feeling is creeping up on him again, quickly. He tries to breathe, calm his hammering heart. “Do you mean this, all this, is...for me? Why?”

Crowley kneels up on the bed and shuffles over to the end. He holds out his hand and Aziraphale, with a moment’s hesitation, takes it. “Because you want it, angel, that’s why. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. All those little moments. The smell of you when you were in my room was intoxicating.”

“What-”

“Oh yes, something sweet, something delicious, lingers in the air. I know it was you, Aziraphale, just something a bit spicier than you usually give off.”

Aziraphale sits down. He’s been found out, and now Crowley is here, and he’s fairly sure this isn’t a joke of some kind, even if it is a bit excessive.

Crowley is, after all, a demon. Excessive is practically his middle name. And speaking of -

“Hold on! That means you knew at, at the bar, and when I made dessert, and - “ Aziraphale can feel his face flush and his hands clench at his sides, because how could he not realize, how could he not _know_ , that Crowley had been working a seduction on _him_ , not just tonight, but for the last year or more, at least? “You bloody demon! How _could you_ make me feel this way?” The floor tilts beneath him, embarrassment and disappointment rising up to fight their way for prominence, and Aziraphale can feel his soul start to shrink, just a tiny bit. Love, this burning, all-encompassing way humans love, is for idiots.

Just like him.

Crowley steps right into the middle of this maelstrom of emotion and pulls Aziraphale around to look him in the eyes, his face as serious as Aziraphale has ever seen it. “I did nothing of the kind, angel. I simply followed your lead. I might have prodded a bit here and there, just to see what direction you wanted this to go, but I did nothing at all to manipulate your feelings. You must believe me. I - I love you, my angel.” Crowley pauses and swallows heavily. “And may God help me for once,” he says quietly, so frighteningly close to a prayer.

Aziraphale can feel tears welling up, hope blossoming in his heart. “You do? Truly? That’s...ah. That’s good.” Aziraphale hiccups down a sob, and figures he might as well go the whole way, too. “I mean, I love you, Crowley. I think have for a long time. I just didn’t realize that there were...other things, I wanted, until recently. You know. That kind of love. I wasn’t sure how to go about it all, with you. Or even if I should."

Crowley cups Aziraphale’s cheek, the brush of his thumb against Aziraphale’s skin as gentle as a butterfly’s wing. He’s so close Aziraphale can feel the heat of his breath, smell the expensive product in his hair, and he shivers.“I don’t know how you could miss the fact that I’m telling you that you absolutely should,” Crowley says, and closes the distance between them until their lips just touch, and Aziraphale _melts_.

“Oh,” he whispers, then dives back in with enthusiasm, chasing more of the taste of Crowley’s mouth. Crowley, for his part, wraps his arms around Aziraphale’s back and coaxes him on with little pleased hums and nips, as eager to give back as, it seems, he is to receive.

The light outside has begun to dim, the summer sun fading into a purple and orange-shot sunset that fills the room with color and sets the roses glowing. Aziraphale realizes, just as he tilts his head to the side to welcome Crowley’s soft, sucking kisses on his neck, that what sets this apart from any time before was most definitely love, the sort of love that rings constant and true and has lasted now for millennia. Sure, there’s a bit of lust tangled up in it too, but being an angel doesn’t mean he can’t also be part of this continuum of Creation, this soul-aching, blood-hot expression of the Divine that lives in all souls.

“Oh, angel,” Crowley moans, as Aziraphale deftly slips his fingertips over a nipple. “You’re a bit better at this than I’d have guessed.”

“I’m an angel, dear, not dead,” he retorts, then tweaks the nipple he was teasing in retaliation. Crowley jumps then groans and flops back on the bed, Aziraphale following him down and leaning over him on one arm. “I’ve had this body for all of Time. Of course I’ve tried it all out.” He traces his finger down Crowley’s chest, down the little trail of hair under his belly button, and into the crease of his thigh. Crowley jumps and swears at the contact, and Aziraphale giggles.

“Oh, sure, it’s funny now, is it? That I put all this on and here you are, taking charge of it like you’re the fallen and I’m the innocent. Well, just you wai-” Crowley is cut off mid sentence as Aziraphale bends down and kisses him, finally allowing himself to touch, to wrap his hand around the thick cock Crowley is sporting, and begins a slow, aching slide that has Crowley arching under him in a matter of seconds. The skin is velvety soft, and Aziraphale’s mouth waters at the thought of taking him in, completing an act he hasn’t attempted since the Roman empire.

“Oh, easy, angel, easy,” he pants. “I’m not gonna last if you - oh Go- Sata - oh _fuck_.”

“That’s it, my dear one,” Aziraphale says, keeping his hand steady as Crowley falls to pieces beneath him. “Let me love you.”

The rose petals are scattered in every direction as Crowley squirms in his ecstacy; streaks of blood red left in their wake as he crushes them between clutching fingers. Aziraphale squints and tries to be as discreet as possible as he miracles open his own trousers, refusing even for one second to stop touching Crowley, but desperate to satisfy his own hunger. He gets his other hand on himself and hisses, a more Crowley-like sound he’s sure he’s never made before.

“Lemme, angel,” Crowley slurs, and reaches over. It’s slightly awkward, so Aziraphale settles on his side and nestles in so they can touch. “Oh, yes, that’s it.” Crowley ruts against him, his hard cock pushing against Aziraphale’s, against his belly, and it’s just so good, the heat and the fire of him, and when they both get their hands around, it’s bliss. Crowley comes first, sucking air in through his teeth, and then Aziraphale buries his face in Crowley’s neck and pants devotionals into the sweet, sweat-slicked skin.

The aftermath is, as is typical, silent.

The room is filled with the smell of roses, the candles are starting to gutter in the breeze flowing in through the open window, and Aziraphale and Crolwey lie side by side on Aziraphale’s ruined sheets, Aziraphale trying to calm his racing heart.

He picks up Crowley’s hand and entwines their fingers. Crowley turns his head and they stare at each other, Aziraphale entranced by the sweet sleepiness his broad, yellow eyes have never seemed to quite achieve before. He lifts their hands and kisses Crowley’s fingers.

“For someone terrified finding me here, you certainly warmed up quickly,” Crowley says, his smile a touch smug. “I thought I’d have to do a lot more convincing.”

“Hmmmm. Well. I can’t say that I _really_ minded, you see. It’s taken such an awfully long time to bring you around.” Aziraphale watches Crowley’s eyes as his last sentence sinks in, trying desperately to keep his mouth from twitching as the full implications hit him. His eyes grow wide.

“Why you dirty-double-crossing, devious little…” Crowley flips to straddle Aziraphale and pins his arms down to the mattress in an instant. Honestly, Azripahale sort of forgot how fast he is, but too late now. The headboard taps the wall as Crowley snugs his knees around Aziraphale’s hips. “Angel! How could you possibly? To me, of all demons?”

Aziraphale contemplates Crowley’s thighs where they’re tucked up against his sides, the burn of his wrists under Crowley’s grip, and simply grins. “Six thousand years, my dear. Loving you was the easy part. Seducing you needed...a bit of devilish inspiration.”

Aziraphale giggles as Crowley rolls his eyes, furious at himself, then sighs as Crowley bends his lips to Aziraphale’s neck and delivers his penance.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is inspired by [Worship, by Years and Years](https://youtu.be/A3TflASAFJI)


End file.
